Ah yes, Thanksgiving. It's the time of year when the weather in Seattle suddenly turns to soggy, windy nastiness. It was just last weekend I was out enjoying a beautiful, albeit rather chilly, ride on my motorcycle taking in the golden leaves, blue skies and dry roads. Apparently, that was this fair weather biker's last ride for the season. The rains came on Monday and haven't stopped for three days. Time to winterize the bike and store it until spring.
On the upside, rain in town equals snow in the mountains, so it is also time to drag the skis out of storage and head up to the mountains for my winter playtime activities. For that, I am thankful.
Before the Thanksgiving Day dinner, many families share the tradition of going around the table to announce what they are thankful for. Health, family, friends generally top the list. They top my list too. There is no doubt that I am thankful every day, not just at Thanksgiving, for my great health, my wonderful family, amazing friends, and, of course, Mr. Wonderful. But the list goes on.
I am thankful that I have choices. I don't always make the best choices, but at least I get to choose. Sometimes I waiver over my choices. Okay, I almost always waiver over my choices. Let's face it, as a woman in the 21st Century, I probably have more choices than any woman in history. But I am thankful that I have them, nonetheless. I think about women in many other cultures who are not blessed with the ability to make decisions and choose for themselves. Are they happier because life is simpler, or because they don't know that they are missing anything? Maybe. But I'd love to see all women at least have the chance to make decisions for themselves and choose their own destiny.
I'm thankful that I had the parents I had. Not everyone can say that. I didn't grow up in a Beaver Cleaver family where everything was perfect and my father's idea of reprimanding his kids was a stern talking to that included a parable and a lesson learned. Far from it. Money was tight; feeding a family of eight had to be rough on my dad, and at least one of us kids was causing some sort of trouble or another. However, somehow my parents did teach us life lessons in their own way. Among other things, they taught me to give people the benefit of the doubt, be open, trusting and compassionate, lend a helping hand, live life, and always keep your sense of humor no matter what. That keeping my sense of humor thing has gotten me through a lot of life's pickles.
As much as it is not my dream or even the slightest bit satisfying, I am thankful that I have the job I have. In these difficult times, being jobless is all too common and so many people are struggling. I find it sobering to walk past so many homeless, beggars, and people in need of assistance these days. These are just the folks I see in my daily travels. There are many more who aren't so obvious; quietly suffering in their homes just trying to stave off creditors and keep a roof over their heads.
And even the smaller things deserve the attention of a 'thank you.'
1. I'm thankful that all the clothes in my closet fit. That's probably due to the fact that I clean out my closet regularly so I don't have an array of fat clothes and skinny clothes. I just have clothes.
2. I'm thankful that my wonderful friend gave me a gift certificate for a spa treatment for my birthday four months ago and I hadn't had time to use it until today! What a great way to kick off my long weekend; I spent the day at the spa getting thoroughly pampered by Molly and Misty (their real names).
3. I'm thankful that my boyfriend also enjoys some of the same things I do: great shoes, spa treatments, curling up with a good book and taking long walks.
4. I'm also thankful that my boyfriend is sometimes "all boy": loves working on cars and motorcycles, playing drums and watching stupid boy movies. Couples need their separate time too.
5. And I'm thankful that, although my life is sometimes busier than I'd like, it's a full and satisfying one.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Anti-Age Weapons: Scalpel, Spackle or Scissors
As I sat looking around the room at the faces of my mostly older-than-me book club members a few weeks ago, I realized NONE of them had the deep forehead creases I possess. I tried not to let it bother me, as I listened to the conversation focused on the coloring of one woman’s grey locks. I tried to defend her decision to cling to her grey strands. “Keep your grey; it’s you,” I proclaimed. No one was listening. The others suggested, go darker, get highlights, get low lights. “I just want some texture,” she said pulling her hair up on end.
I am not sure if our society has become more and more obsessed with anti-aging, but this obsession is beginning at an earlier age. Women in their 20’s are getting “work done”.
Admittedly, I struggle with the idea of cosmetic surgery, not with the idea of actually having anything done, because I couldn't afford it regardless. But I do struggle with whether I think it’s a good idea or not. Would I have something done if I could, in fact, afford it?
Part of me says, no way. Why can’t we just age gracefully? There is nothing weirder or more unnatural than the 70 year old woman who has a taut expressionless face from an overdose of Botox. We’ve all seen this person. She starts out small, just a little touch up around the eye, then maybe a little more the next time she goes in for servicing. Eventually, she looks like she is always walking into a surprise party. It’s startling. I find it difficult to hold a serious conversation with someone who looks like she is in a constant state of shock or surprise because of cosmetic surgery O.D. The animated facial expressions are lost and it feels like I’m talking to a puppet.
Furthermore, I tend to want to inspect them more closely to figure out what the heck is going on. One woman I knew was pulled so tight from a face lift, her hairline was all out of whack. Her lower lip had so much collagen, she appeared to have difficulty speaking. I found this distracting to our conversation.
Grant it, we often find ourselves talking with people who have had strokes, burns, or other disfiguring life events and I don’t find myself quite so distracted. But the former made conscious choices to alter their appearances. It’s difficult not to stare a bit in wonder, whether it was a job well done or a hack job.
My dental hygienist had visited Buenos Aires, Argentina last spring. Apparently, the medical system there pays for one cosmetic surgery per person per year and they take advantage of that benefit. “That is a city full of beautiful people,” she told me. Everyone definitely checks each other out openly inspecting what work they’ve had done. Not a place for a self-conscious person who isn’t comfortable in her own skin to visit. My very naturel dental hygienist, however, is quite comfortable in her skin.
Besides the cash, some factors to consider before having something done to my face would be the recovery time, the risk of looking worse than I started out, and the possible addiction. I’m pretty sure if I had a little zap eliminating the forehead creases, I would decide I needed a touch up around the eyes. Then the mouth would be next. Before I knew it, I’d be that “tight faced” woman everyone gossips about.
As far as what people should or should not do with their looks is certainly up to them and what makes them feel good. It seems no one comes out of those procedures saying “Oh, heavens, I really over did it, didn’t I?”
I’d probably stay away from hacking away at my face, but if I were truly going to do something, I might consider some other parts of my body. But only if I had the cash, the time, the patience, and a significantly high rate of success were guaranteed.
As far as the money it costs for these procedures, I could probably pool all the dough I’ve spent on cosmetics and creams and have enough for a little Botox and change left over. The amount of products I tend to use as I age has increased substantially.
I’ve gone from a cleanser, toner, and moisturizer to those three, plus night cream, hydrating mask, brightener, eye cream, pore eliminator (spackle for wrinkles), foundation primer, tinted moisturizer, SPF creams, highlighters, powders, and concealers. All this before the actual makeup even hits the canvas! What used to take me five minutes in front of the mirror, now takes 20. Maybe a shot of Botox on the forehead wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
My wrinkles are the product of my over active facial expressions and storytelling, as well as age, genetics, sun damage and other environmental factors. I know I won’t actually go through with any permanent or semi-permanent cosmetic alterations (just yet). Maybe I will just cut some bangs.
I am not sure if our society has become more and more obsessed with anti-aging, but this obsession is beginning at an earlier age. Women in their 20’s are getting “work done”.
Admittedly, I struggle with the idea of cosmetic surgery, not with the idea of actually having anything done, because I couldn't afford it regardless. But I do struggle with whether I think it’s a good idea or not. Would I have something done if I could, in fact, afford it?
Part of me says, no way. Why can’t we just age gracefully? There is nothing weirder or more unnatural than the 70 year old woman who has a taut expressionless face from an overdose of Botox. We’ve all seen this person. She starts out small, just a little touch up around the eye, then maybe a little more the next time she goes in for servicing. Eventually, she looks like she is always walking into a surprise party. It’s startling. I find it difficult to hold a serious conversation with someone who looks like she is in a constant state of shock or surprise because of cosmetic surgery O.D. The animated facial expressions are lost and it feels like I’m talking to a puppet.
Furthermore, I tend to want to inspect them more closely to figure out what the heck is going on. One woman I knew was pulled so tight from a face lift, her hairline was all out of whack. Her lower lip had so much collagen, she appeared to have difficulty speaking. I found this distracting to our conversation.
Grant it, we often find ourselves talking with people who have had strokes, burns, or other disfiguring life events and I don’t find myself quite so distracted. But the former made conscious choices to alter their appearances. It’s difficult not to stare a bit in wonder, whether it was a job well done or a hack job.
My dental hygienist had visited Buenos Aires, Argentina last spring. Apparently, the medical system there pays for one cosmetic surgery per person per year and they take advantage of that benefit. “That is a city full of beautiful people,” she told me. Everyone definitely checks each other out openly inspecting what work they’ve had done. Not a place for a self-conscious person who isn’t comfortable in her own skin to visit. My very naturel dental hygienist, however, is quite comfortable in her skin.
Besides the cash, some factors to consider before having something done to my face would be the recovery time, the risk of looking worse than I started out, and the possible addiction. I’m pretty sure if I had a little zap eliminating the forehead creases, I would decide I needed a touch up around the eyes. Then the mouth would be next. Before I knew it, I’d be that “tight faced” woman everyone gossips about.
As far as what people should or should not do with their looks is certainly up to them and what makes them feel good. It seems no one comes out of those procedures saying “Oh, heavens, I really over did it, didn’t I?”
I’d probably stay away from hacking away at my face, but if I were truly going to do something, I might consider some other parts of my body. But only if I had the cash, the time, the patience, and a significantly high rate of success were guaranteed.
As far as the money it costs for these procedures, I could probably pool all the dough I’ve spent on cosmetics and creams and have enough for a little Botox and change left over. The amount of products I tend to use as I age has increased substantially.
I’ve gone from a cleanser, toner, and moisturizer to those three, plus night cream, hydrating mask, brightener, eye cream, pore eliminator (spackle for wrinkles), foundation primer, tinted moisturizer, SPF creams, highlighters, powders, and concealers. All this before the actual makeup even hits the canvas! What used to take me five minutes in front of the mirror, now takes 20. Maybe a shot of Botox on the forehead wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
My wrinkles are the product of my over active facial expressions and storytelling, as well as age, genetics, sun damage and other environmental factors. I know I won’t actually go through with any permanent or semi-permanent cosmetic alterations (just yet). Maybe I will just cut some bangs.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Thoughtful Words From Jobs
After news of Steve Jobs’ death last week, several articles, emails, past interviews and social media updates hit the network. One such inspiring email crossed my path, a YouTube video of Jobs giving a graduation speech to the class of 2005 Stanford graduates.
In his speech Jobs advises his young eager audience, “You’ve got to find what you love…keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.”
These are easy words to live by at a young age, before mortgage payments, marriage, car loans, children and other life expenses start building up and you are forced to do what you don’t so much love, but it pays the bills. Depressing, I know; however, it’s true for many of us. I went to school to write; I studied journalism. When I graduated from college and started looking for jobs in my field, I was beaten down not having enough experience. I landed a “high paying” job in the insurance industry and there I stayed, for far too many years. Sure I was able to afford a new car, home, go on vacations, and buy nice clothes, but I was unsatisfied.
Finding your life’s purpose sounds like some kind of spiritual woo woo spouted by people like Gandhi or Mother Theresa. Nice idea but completely impractical in our western society.
Jobs’ words “don’t settle” continue to rattle around in my brain. As we all hear these words with regard to finding a life partner, they also apply to finding your life’s work. Especially, since we will most likely work longer than we will stay with the same partner.
I left the insurance industry (as well as my long-time mismatched partner) for nine years while I went abroad to teach English, travel, practice my writing, try out various odd jobs and consider business ideas. I toyed with the idea of returning to school, but either I or others would talk myself out of that venture. Too expensive. Too much work. Too difficult at my ripe old age. Not necessary. All these voices steered me away from what I actually wanted to do. Instead, with growing debt from so much “under”-employment, and a rising rent, I plunked myself right back into my old job at the insurance factory. Financially, it was a smart move, but I was once again unsatisfied. I knew this was not my life’s purpose and felt I had “settled”.
Jobs knew what I was going through. “Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you want to become. Everything else is secondary.”
I followed my heart once, chucking it all nine years ago and trekking off to Europe for an unknown adventure. It worked out well. I had an amazing experience, one I will never forget. Nor will I ever regret it. That’s the thing about following one’s heart; no one ever dies saying they wished they’d never followed their heart or intuition.
My heart craves teaching, traveling and writing. I have started on my path to ensure I can do these things and earn a living in the process. How I will achieve those goals, how I will pay for my venture, what others might think of my choices, all secondary.
In his speech Jobs advises his young eager audience, “You’ve got to find what you love…keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.”
These are easy words to live by at a young age, before mortgage payments, marriage, car loans, children and other life expenses start building up and you are forced to do what you don’t so much love, but it pays the bills. Depressing, I know; however, it’s true for many of us. I went to school to write; I studied journalism. When I graduated from college and started looking for jobs in my field, I was beaten down not having enough experience. I landed a “high paying” job in the insurance industry and there I stayed, for far too many years. Sure I was able to afford a new car, home, go on vacations, and buy nice clothes, but I was unsatisfied.
Finding your life’s purpose sounds like some kind of spiritual woo woo spouted by people like Gandhi or Mother Theresa. Nice idea but completely impractical in our western society.
Jobs’ words “don’t settle” continue to rattle around in my brain. As we all hear these words with regard to finding a life partner, they also apply to finding your life’s work. Especially, since we will most likely work longer than we will stay with the same partner.
I left the insurance industry (as well as my long-time mismatched partner) for nine years while I went abroad to teach English, travel, practice my writing, try out various odd jobs and consider business ideas. I toyed with the idea of returning to school, but either I or others would talk myself out of that venture. Too expensive. Too much work. Too difficult at my ripe old age. Not necessary. All these voices steered me away from what I actually wanted to do. Instead, with growing debt from so much “under”-employment, and a rising rent, I plunked myself right back into my old job at the insurance factory. Financially, it was a smart move, but I was once again unsatisfied. I knew this was not my life’s purpose and felt I had “settled”.
Jobs knew what I was going through. “Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you want to become. Everything else is secondary.”
I followed my heart once, chucking it all nine years ago and trekking off to Europe for an unknown adventure. It worked out well. I had an amazing experience, one I will never forget. Nor will I ever regret it. That’s the thing about following one’s heart; no one ever dies saying they wished they’d never followed their heart or intuition.
My heart craves teaching, traveling and writing. I have started on my path to ensure I can do these things and earn a living in the process. How I will achieve those goals, how I will pay for my venture, what others might think of my choices, all secondary.
Friday, September 16, 2011
98119
Recently the gossip mongers at work have decided the statute on keeping secrets among themselves has run. Last week a co-worker in town on business from Minnesota said to me, "I heard a rumor about you." Hmmm...this is curious. A rumor about moi? When I inquired what said rumor was, she told me she'd heard that Mr. Wonderful and I had been dating. I confirmed that was no rumor and, yes, we've been dating for a year now. She seemed surprised that it'd been that long and she had just heard this fact from some third source. We're nothing if not discreet. Okay, as anyone who's been around us can attest, we are not exactly discreet.
Yesterday another co-worker in Golden, Colorado sent me an Instant Message saying "I heard you have a boyfriend. Anyone I know..." She could skip being coy. I knew she already knew because our co-worker, Fun Bobby, had told her months ago.
My boss asked me last week if we were still dating. I told her we were and she confided that she had told her boss. At this point, I'm nearly expecting to be standing in the checkout line at Safeway and catch a glimpse of the front cover of "Insurance Weekly" showing Mr. Wonderful and I together outside Insurance World. The headline "It's true. They've been seen holding hands!" I'll be wearing those large sunglasses that cover my entire head and Mr. W. will be turning away from the camera. The lens will most definitely capture some extremely unflattering angle that accentuates my all too curvaceous figure in a negative light. Mr. Wonderful will, undoubtedly, look hot and all the girls reading the rag will ask "what is he doing with her?"
Young couples often have to suffer through the marriage question from friends and family at every event and holiday function. They want to know where this relationship is going. They are getting attached to the partner and need to know how invested they should be. It's always a drag when a good friend breaks up with a girlfriend or boyfriend everyone liked. "What happened?" they ask. "Will you remain friends?" their eyebrows furrow in disbelief.
For the slightly older set who may have been married once or twice before, the question of matrimony isn't as pressing as the question of moving in together. Although a few friends and co-workers have asked about marriage (one being the Golden co-worker who said she wanted to "be there" when it happened), the move in is on the forefront of their minds.
After a business meeting with Mr. Wonderful one morning, a co-worker was suddenly standing in front of my desk. "Mr. W. mentioned he was moving to Seattle and I just had to come down and find out if you two were moving in together," she said trying to appear nonchalant.
"Why didn't you just ask him?" I said.
"I didn't want to pry." This she said with a straight face.
Last Sunday I was helping Mr. W. move a few things into his new pad, a condo about a mile from my apartment. He is renting from the cutest elderly Norwegian couple who have been married 57 years! While moving some boxes into his place, we met one of the owners of another unit. Introductions were made, niceties exchanged as we clarified which one of us was moving in and which one of us was not.
"Oh, not yet anyway," the neighbor said smiling at me. "That's an awfully big two bedroom unit!"
"Not big enough," I countered.
At this point, I'm just happy my guy will soon be living in the same zip code.
Baby steps.
Yesterday another co-worker in Golden, Colorado sent me an Instant Message saying "I heard you have a boyfriend. Anyone I know..." She could skip being coy. I knew she already knew because our co-worker, Fun Bobby, had told her months ago.
My boss asked me last week if we were still dating. I told her we were and she confided that she had told her boss. At this point, I'm nearly expecting to be standing in the checkout line at Safeway and catch a glimpse of the front cover of "Insurance Weekly" showing Mr. Wonderful and I together outside Insurance World. The headline "It's true. They've been seen holding hands!" I'll be wearing those large sunglasses that cover my entire head and Mr. W. will be turning away from the camera. The lens will most definitely capture some extremely unflattering angle that accentuates my all too curvaceous figure in a negative light. Mr. Wonderful will, undoubtedly, look hot and all the girls reading the rag will ask "what is he doing with her?"
Young couples often have to suffer through the marriage question from friends and family at every event and holiday function. They want to know where this relationship is going. They are getting attached to the partner and need to know how invested they should be. It's always a drag when a good friend breaks up with a girlfriend or boyfriend everyone liked. "What happened?" they ask. "Will you remain friends?" their eyebrows furrow in disbelief.
For the slightly older set who may have been married once or twice before, the question of matrimony isn't as pressing as the question of moving in together. Although a few friends and co-workers have asked about marriage (one being the Golden co-worker who said she wanted to "be there" when it happened), the move in is on the forefront of their minds.
After a business meeting with Mr. Wonderful one morning, a co-worker was suddenly standing in front of my desk. "Mr. W. mentioned he was moving to Seattle and I just had to come down and find out if you two were moving in together," she said trying to appear nonchalant.
"Why didn't you just ask him?" I said.
"I didn't want to pry." This she said with a straight face.
Last Sunday I was helping Mr. W. move a few things into his new pad, a condo about a mile from my apartment. He is renting from the cutest elderly Norwegian couple who have been married 57 years! While moving some boxes into his place, we met one of the owners of another unit. Introductions were made, niceties exchanged as we clarified which one of us was moving in and which one of us was not.
"Oh, not yet anyway," the neighbor said smiling at me. "That's an awfully big two bedroom unit!"
"Not big enough," I countered.
At this point, I'm just happy my guy will soon be living in the same zip code.
Baby steps.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Bring on the Chef
Since my divorce nine years ago, I've been on a cooking sabbatical. First it was a trip to Europe that lasted nearly three and a half years. While I had access to kitchens or at least kitchenettes, I really couldn't say what I did was considered "cooking". I simply prepared food or ate out. Living abroad it was fun to find the local haunts and introduce my pallet to new flavors. That was part of the adventure of living in Europe and I wanted to experience as much as possible. I had no idea how long I'd be living there and wanted to take full advantage of every aspect of the new and different cultures I was embracing. Okay, the reality was I was newly single and preferred to eat out or fix simple foods in my tiny apartment to cooking for myself.
In Prague I met some great young friends who had larger apartments and found cooking and entertaining fun, exciting and rewarding. They would often invite me over for dinner and I'd sport a bottle of wine and do the clean up as my contribution to the event. Before they got to know me, it was suggested that I should cook for them. I think they assumed since I was older and had been married before, I would be good at it. I explained that I was on sabbatical. My wine and clean up services seemed to suffice.
The longer I stayed living abroad, The Czech Republic, Portugal, Greece, Turkey, the more used to not cooking I became. My first year in Lisbon, I shared an apartment with a Japanese girl who was studying to be a sushi chef. She love trying out new recipes on me and I loved being the guinea pig. One of my friends from Prague lived next door and she continued her routine of culinary exploration and had me over for meals regularly. She would tell me she bought too much of something and we absolutely "had" to eat it up so it wouldn't spoil. Who was I to argue?
The second winter there, I rented a room from a local woman who was a caterer. She would often leave leftovers on my night table or in the frig with a note for me. Wow. I could have really gotten used to that!
Upon returning to the States and securing my little one bedroom apartment with the intention of nesting for awhile, I planned on taking up cooking once again. However, my apartment is conveniently located near loads of cafes, restaurants and pubs which all have affordable and tasty cuisine. Happy Hours in Seattle proved to be economical and a great way to catch up with friends or meet new people. My tiny kitchenette was difficult to really make anything too involved and most of the fancier kitchen gadgets got lost in the divorce. There would be no Thanksgiving diners hosted at my place. Furthermore, I discovered that after taking so many years off from cooking, I was no longer any good at it. My ex-husband was really the executive chef in our house and I was more of a prep cook. I could hold my own back then, but somewhere between signing the divorce papers and traipsing off to far off lands, I'd lost my culinary abilities. Recently, a 92 year old woman I was chatting with at a friend's birthday party stated she was no longer a good cook because she got out of practice. I could relate. Maybe I'll get a second wind and start cooking again before I'm 92.
There are many good reasons to cook at home.
1. It's healthier than eating out. At least one would hope. You can select the ingredients, the healthy options and recipes vs. a chef who uses whole milk or creams, full fat everything, and loads of sugar and salt.
2. You save money. Unless you only shop at the gourmet grocer and buy locally grown organic foods farmed in soil irrigated and conditioned by home grown, hand fed earth worms, groceries are typically cheaper than eating out. Also, you must actually eat the groceries you buy. If you let them sit unattended for days on end while you continue to eat out, the fruit flies devouring your fruit and the veggies in your frig turning to mush, you won't actually save money.
3. You eat smaller portions. Provided you eat your one serving and put the remainder in a Tupperware for lunch or dinner the next day, rather than pick at it while cleaning up the kitchen until there isn't enough left over for a second meal, you will eat less overall.
4. It's a great date. Cooking together can be an aphrodisiac. What is more romantic than sharing the kitchen, each having a task, sauteing, stirring and tasting and then finally sitting down at a beautifully set table for a delicious meal, wine, music and candles and enjoying food prepared together? It really is a great way to be together, talk, laugh, and smooch throughout the process.
5. Like a great date, it's also a great social activity. Having friends over to share in preparing food is affordable and fun. You can chat and catch up while cooking, never getting interrupted by the waitress who always seems to turn up right at the punch line of your story. Cleanup is a group effort and you have the entire evening to linger over wine without being rushed out the door because someone is waiting for your table.
6. No bread basket. Except for certain occasions or specific meals, I do not buy bread regularly. I absolutely love bread, however, but I'd eat far too much of it if it were in the house. The bread basket at the restaurant is my weak spot. I can decline dessert, but I cannot pull away from the bread basket.
While there are many cases for cooking at home, there are cases for not cooking.
1. It is often cheaper to eat out solo. For example, a recipe calls for 1/4 teaspoon of red pepper flakes. I buy an entire jar of red pepper flakes for $3.99. I'd have to cook a lot of recipes using red pepper flakes to get my money's worth. Since I don't even have them on hand, that means I haven't cooked anything calling for red pepper flakes in five years. Chances are those flakes will expire before I ever get through the jar. I can go to the Thai place around the corner and buy one dish that will turn into three meals for just a bit over twice that amount with a lot less hassle.
2. Unplanned schedules. While I can try to plan meals for the week and purchase groceries in advance, it never fails that something comes up to throw me off my schedule. Suddenly, I'm not home for a few nights to eat the food I've purchased and it starts to spoil. I hate tossing out moldy or over ripe food.
3. Not what I want to do on every date. While cooking together can be a great date, if we do it every night we're together it becomes mundane and tedious. To be honest I'd rather be on the sofa cuddling than in the kitchen chopping carrots.
4. Too many leftovers. While it's great to cook a full recipe and have leftovers, by the third or fourth meal, I'm sick of it. No matter how great it tasted on days one and two, it's just awful by day three. Freezing doesn't work for me. It becomes freezer burnt. Cutting the recipe in half doesn't seem like it's worth the bother.
5. Cooking from scratch is time consuming. If it takes longer than 30 minutes to prepare, cook, eat and clean up, it's too much time. After all day in the office, I do not find spending a couple hours in the kitchen the least bit relaxing. By the time I walk home, unpack my tote, change my clothes, go through my mail, prepare the food, cook the food, eat the food, fish out those little Tupperware containers for leftovers, and clean up the kitchen, it's nine or ten o'clock at night. Where did the evening go?
6. I really do not enjoy cooking. If I could choose a maid service, a chauffeur, a personal chef or a personal trainer, I'd choose the chef every time.
So whatever happened to my culinary friend from Prague? She returned to her home in San Diego, went back to school, got married and started her own business. She also hired a personal chef. She loves it.
In Prague I met some great young friends who had larger apartments and found cooking and entertaining fun, exciting and rewarding. They would often invite me over for dinner and I'd sport a bottle of wine and do the clean up as my contribution to the event. Before they got to know me, it was suggested that I should cook for them. I think they assumed since I was older and had been married before, I would be good at it. I explained that I was on sabbatical. My wine and clean up services seemed to suffice.
The longer I stayed living abroad, The Czech Republic, Portugal, Greece, Turkey, the more used to not cooking I became. My first year in Lisbon, I shared an apartment with a Japanese girl who was studying to be a sushi chef. She love trying out new recipes on me and I loved being the guinea pig. One of my friends from Prague lived next door and she continued her routine of culinary exploration and had me over for meals regularly. She would tell me she bought too much of something and we absolutely "had" to eat it up so it wouldn't spoil. Who was I to argue?
The second winter there, I rented a room from a local woman who was a caterer. She would often leave leftovers on my night table or in the frig with a note for me. Wow. I could have really gotten used to that!
Upon returning to the States and securing my little one bedroom apartment with the intention of nesting for awhile, I planned on taking up cooking once again. However, my apartment is conveniently located near loads of cafes, restaurants and pubs which all have affordable and tasty cuisine. Happy Hours in Seattle proved to be economical and a great way to catch up with friends or meet new people. My tiny kitchenette was difficult to really make anything too involved and most of the fancier kitchen gadgets got lost in the divorce. There would be no Thanksgiving diners hosted at my place. Furthermore, I discovered that after taking so many years off from cooking, I was no longer any good at it. My ex-husband was really the executive chef in our house and I was more of a prep cook. I could hold my own back then, but somewhere between signing the divorce papers and traipsing off to far off lands, I'd lost my culinary abilities. Recently, a 92 year old woman I was chatting with at a friend's birthday party stated she was no longer a good cook because she got out of practice. I could relate. Maybe I'll get a second wind and start cooking again before I'm 92.
There are many good reasons to cook at home.
1. It's healthier than eating out. At least one would hope. You can select the ingredients, the healthy options and recipes vs. a chef who uses whole milk or creams, full fat everything, and loads of sugar and salt.
2. You save money. Unless you only shop at the gourmet grocer and buy locally grown organic foods farmed in soil irrigated and conditioned by home grown, hand fed earth worms, groceries are typically cheaper than eating out. Also, you must actually eat the groceries you buy. If you let them sit unattended for days on end while you continue to eat out, the fruit flies devouring your fruit and the veggies in your frig turning to mush, you won't actually save money.
3. You eat smaller portions. Provided you eat your one serving and put the remainder in a Tupperware for lunch or dinner the next day, rather than pick at it while cleaning up the kitchen until there isn't enough left over for a second meal, you will eat less overall.
4. It's a great date. Cooking together can be an aphrodisiac. What is more romantic than sharing the kitchen, each having a task, sauteing, stirring and tasting and then finally sitting down at a beautifully set table for a delicious meal, wine, music and candles and enjoying food prepared together? It really is a great way to be together, talk, laugh, and smooch throughout the process.
5. Like a great date, it's also a great social activity. Having friends over to share in preparing food is affordable and fun. You can chat and catch up while cooking, never getting interrupted by the waitress who always seems to turn up right at the punch line of your story. Cleanup is a group effort and you have the entire evening to linger over wine without being rushed out the door because someone is waiting for your table.
6. No bread basket. Except for certain occasions or specific meals, I do not buy bread regularly. I absolutely love bread, however, but I'd eat far too much of it if it were in the house. The bread basket at the restaurant is my weak spot. I can decline dessert, but I cannot pull away from the bread basket.
While there are many cases for cooking at home, there are cases for not cooking.
1. It is often cheaper to eat out solo. For example, a recipe calls for 1/4 teaspoon of red pepper flakes. I buy an entire jar of red pepper flakes for $3.99. I'd have to cook a lot of recipes using red pepper flakes to get my money's worth. Since I don't even have them on hand, that means I haven't cooked anything calling for red pepper flakes in five years. Chances are those flakes will expire before I ever get through the jar. I can go to the Thai place around the corner and buy one dish that will turn into three meals for just a bit over twice that amount with a lot less hassle.
2. Unplanned schedules. While I can try to plan meals for the week and purchase groceries in advance, it never fails that something comes up to throw me off my schedule. Suddenly, I'm not home for a few nights to eat the food I've purchased and it starts to spoil. I hate tossing out moldy or over ripe food.
3. Not what I want to do on every date. While cooking together can be a great date, if we do it every night we're together it becomes mundane and tedious. To be honest I'd rather be on the sofa cuddling than in the kitchen chopping carrots.
4. Too many leftovers. While it's great to cook a full recipe and have leftovers, by the third or fourth meal, I'm sick of it. No matter how great it tasted on days one and two, it's just awful by day three. Freezing doesn't work for me. It becomes freezer burnt. Cutting the recipe in half doesn't seem like it's worth the bother.
5. Cooking from scratch is time consuming. If it takes longer than 30 minutes to prepare, cook, eat and clean up, it's too much time. After all day in the office, I do not find spending a couple hours in the kitchen the least bit relaxing. By the time I walk home, unpack my tote, change my clothes, go through my mail, prepare the food, cook the food, eat the food, fish out those little Tupperware containers for leftovers, and clean up the kitchen, it's nine or ten o'clock at night. Where did the evening go?
6. I really do not enjoy cooking. If I could choose a maid service, a chauffeur, a personal chef or a personal trainer, I'd choose the chef every time.
So whatever happened to my culinary friend from Prague? She returned to her home in San Diego, went back to school, got married and started her own business. She also hired a personal chef. She loves it.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
I'm Home
I love walking out onto my balcony on a sunny, summer Sunday morning with coffee in hand and smelling the fresh sea air wafting over from Puget Sound. It is the scent of home for me. Even though I spent my first fifteen years land locked in upstate New York (think Woodstock, Yasgur's farm and Catskill Mountains) for me, the smell of the salt water brings on nostalgia. Maybe it was the summers vacationing on the Atlantic Ocean in Maine, New Hampshire, The Jersey Shore and the Carolina's.
After a year living in beautiful, vibrant, architecturally interesting Prague, I moved to Greece for a summer job in 2003. As I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac on Skiathos Island, I sniffed the air, wrinkled my nose a bit and thought "What is that smell?" Then I brighted as I realized it was the sea. That's what I'd been missing living in The Czech Republic. Without realizing it I had missed the sea, salt water, the salty sea air, seagulls, the stench of kelp drying up on the beach. I knew I was home, at least for the summer.
I'm drawn to places that are surrounded by or at least very near salt water. After Greece, I lived in Lisbon, Portugal for two winters surrounded by water and just minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. My next work/living destination was the west coast of Turkey on the Aegean Sea. When my job finished, I embarked on a solo tour for a month or so and traveled along the coast down to the Mediterranean Sea, up the center of the country to the Black Sea and finally to Istanbul and the Sea of Marmara. Just as the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans differ, no two seas are alike, yet all are spectacular in their own unique way.
While researching places to live in the U.S. upon my return to Seattle in 2006, I've focused on coastal cities and towns, as well as islands that sounded promising. Several places have been appealing, but something always keeps me here in Seattle.
Summer has finally hit the Pacific Northwest this year. The delay was long, but August has been warm, sunny and full of the summer activities I enjoy like boating, outdoor concerts, golfing, motorcycle riding, walks along our Pacific Northwest beaches, picnics and cocktails on the deck with friends overlooking the glorious Puget Sound. It's during these brief moments in Seattle I forget anywhere else in the world exists.
I am home (at least until November).
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Farewell to July
Although summer has been late in coming this year, for me July was the month of a few more miles on my motorcycle, little get-a-ways, and my birthday celebration (which I seem to continue celebrating on into August!).
My Mr. Wonderful Boyfriend, planned a surprise birthday trip for me. The only thing I knew for sure was that it was a four day trip since he asked if I could take a couple days off from work. I love surprises, so asked him to keep it that way for as long as possible. As my birthday approached, he began giving me little hints and clues, i.e. you can access this place via the
"Chrysopylae", and it is home of the PEZ Museum and the Antique Slot Machine Museum. I knew none of these clues and promised not to Google, so was left in the dark. A few days before our departure he gave me the weather forecast, which did give me some ideas, but I wasn't 100% certain. The afternoon before our departure, he handed me an envelope. Written across the front it said "Do Not Open Until 10 o'clock Tonight!"
I spent the rest of the day holding the envelope up to the light and the windows, trying to pick up any clues. I could have packed my cosmetics at least, but instead puttered around my apartment, when the phone rang at eight oh oh. While he was packing his owned bag, he realized I couldn't even pack since I didn't know what I was packing for and decided 10.00 p.m. was too late since he was picking me up at 7.00 a.m. the next morning. Whew. That was considerate of him! I opened the envelope with him on the phone and inside was my boarding pass to San Francisco. Now this will sound odd, but this Wander Woman who's been as far afield as Turkey and Vietnam and as far south as Peru, who lived in Europe for over three years and traveled quite a bit of the U.S., had never been to San Francisco. I'd always wanted to go, but I'd just never "gotten around to it".
I was thrilled. It was a great surprise (even if I was starting to suspect it based on some of the clues) and Mr. W outdid himself with the full gift. We stayed at a wonderful and very romantic hotel in the Financial District. The weather was exceptional, as it was here in Seattle as well that particular weekend, and we had a marvelous trip.
We walked all over that beautiful city, exploring, sightseeing, and eating fabulous foods. Upon arrival, we checked into the hotel, dropped our bags in the room (with an amazing view), and headed out to see the sights. We first headed down to the Ferry Building for an outdoor, lovely, yet overpriced, lunch on the promenade. From there we headed up to China Town and wandered the streets and poked in the shops until we reached Russian Hill filled with Italian restaurants, shops and the famous Stinking Rose. We continued on to Washington Square in North Beach and headed over to Coit Tower to climb the stairs and take in the views. Luckily we are walkers because by now we'd covered a fair distance. But the day was not over. From Coit Tower we hoofed it to the famous crooked street of Lombard and climbed up to the top watching the cars inch their way around the hairpin turns that make the street so unique and popular.
From there we walked back down to Union Square via Nob Hill for some dinner and shopping. By this time, the afternoon sun had sunk, the evening breeze picked up and my cardigan was not quite sufficient in the chilly San Francisco air. I wasn't prepared for the temperature drop.
The next day I left the hotel room more prepared and stowed my jacket in Mr. W's day pack! We headed down to the famous Blue Bottle for a delicious mocha made with local Tcho chocolate. It really was worth the half hour wait in line! We wandered through the local farmers market filled with colorful organic and locally grown produce, then boarded the boat to Sausalito where we passed by the historical Alcatraz and took pictures of the stunning city scape behind us. Sausalito is a charming little town filled with quaint shops, restaurants, cafes and art galleries. Once back in San Francisco, we walked along the waterfront to Fisherman's Wharf, had a snack of crab cake and chowder in a sourdough bread bowl (I had no idea that sourdough was so famous there!), then we hiked up to Ghirardelli Square for a sampling of chocolate. Just a 'sampling'.
We had dinner reservations at a wonderful restaurant, "Perbaco", for my special birthday meal. I dined in succulent seared sea scallops and beets and a creamy carrot soup starter. Mr. W indulged in the devil's gulch rabbit. After dinner, we returned to the hotel to undo our belt buckles and lay ourselves out on top of our fluffy white duvet to recover. Romance ensued, but I'll leave it at that.
Sunday greeted us with another gorgeous day with the fog burning off mid-morning and the sun shining in full force. We made our way down to the Golden Gate Park where after walking through the rose garden, we came upon a bicycle rental shop. We chose to rent the bicycle built for two! Neither of us had experienced that before and we were excited to give it a try. It always looks so romantic and sweet in those old classic movies you see. That's the beauty of Mr. W., he's up for anything! We rode all around the park taking in the Conservatory of Flowers, walking through the Japanese Tea Gardens, riding past the de Young Museum and Academy of Sciences, and cruising all the way down to the beach where we strolled the shore and did some toe dipping. Okay, I did some toe dipping while Mr. W. took photos.
After returning our bicycle (once we finally found our way back to the rental place), which did prove be charming, fun and romantic, we walked over to Haight Ashbury and wandered the streets and quirky shops. We found a great lunch spot and then stopped in at the original Ben and Jerry's ice cream shop for a cone. It's a bit like coming to Seattle and visiting the original Starbucks at Pike Place Market. It just has to be done.
After our cones, we headed on to see the Painted Ladies. The sun was sinking low and we were afraid we'd missed our opportunity for some good photos with the sky line behind these Victorian homes, but once we arrived, the lighting was perfect and the views were spectacular.
We continued to Pacific Heights to view more incredible homes and daydream a bit in this fantastic city. I wish I had taken my pedometer as I'm sure we put on a million miles by this time. Luckily I brought a couple different walking shoes so I could swap from day to day.
Day four brought us to the home stretch. After checking out of our luxurious room and storing our luggage at the hotel, we walked just a few blocks and bused down to the Presidio National Park to walk along the Crissy Field path to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a beautiful walk along the water with the bridge in the back ground. We climbed the many steps up to the bridge and walked across, taking photos, kissing along the way, getting honked at by cars for smooching, ate our Ghirardelli chocolate and had a wonderful time. Realizing our time was short, we picked up the pace and returned to the other side in time to catch a bus back into the center of town to finally ride a cable car and have a relaxing last lunch at the Hog Island Oyster Co.
July certainly has been a great month, even if the weather has been disappointing in Seattle. I've enjoyed some great motorcycle rides, took a trip to Port Townsend with the girls for a puffin seeking cruise, sat on the lawn at the Woodland Park Zoo and listened to the Indigo Girls on a surprisingly sunny mid-week evening, had this amazing trip to San Francisco that was perfect in every way, was treated to wonderful birthday dinners by dear friends and received many warm wishes, gifts, balloons, flowers and love from everyone in my life. Overall, I now realize summer isn't only about the weather.
Looking forward, however, to a sunny, summer-like August!
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Puffin Cruise Adventure
Last weekend a couple of women friends and I headed up to lovely Port Townsend for a girls' weekend and a 'puffin cruise'. "What's a Puffin Cruise?" many people asked when I told them of our plans for the weekend. "There are puffins in Washington?" they asked again when I explained to them that we were booked on a three hour evening cruise to view puffins.
I was a little concerned about the weather given our spring/summer track record. I had recently purchased a new sporty lightweight rain jacket at the REI sale. At least I kept to my promise of no new sandals this season. As it turns out, most of my sandals are still safely stowed on the top shelf of my closet looking brand new and anxiously awaiting summer. I was in need of, sadly enough, a rain jacket. I packed my new jacket, a scarf and some gloves (just in case), my comfy walking shoes and some flip flops (always the optimist) and my friends picked me up at 10 o'clock on what turned out to be a summer-like Saturday morning. I could actually wear my flip flops!
Port Townsend, as beautiful as I remembered the last time I visited 15 or more years ago, greeted us with sunny skies, sparkling waters and interesting shops to stroll. First things first, we were hungry! We trekked around town seeking the perfect eating spot to soak up this marvelous afternoon. Sirens Pub provided wonderful outdoor seating, delicious salmon sandwiches and salads. Trying to "be good", I opted for a grilled salmon caesar salad and iced tea. Delicious, satisfying and healthy-ish, it was also the last "somewhat good" meal I had for the rest of the trip. All too easily enticed into joining in on the ice cream cones, nachos, Bloodymary's and scones, by the time the trip ended, my good intentions lost all battles. Oh well, Monday I would start again! Luckily my friends are also avid walkers and we climbed hills, walked the marina and beaches and enjoyed our exercise in the sunshine.
The cruise started at 6.00 p.m., so after checking into our charming and fairly luxurious (by my standards) accommodations, we meandered around a bit more and headed down to the marina for our cruise. Adorned in a few more layers for an evening excursion in the Pacific Northwest and cameras in tow, the excitement mounted as we gathered amongst our fellow cruisers anxious to get a glimpse of these adorable birds. Kristen, a seasoned puffin seeker, remarked about a prior trip to Wales where she walked among 6,000 puffins. Wow, I immediately imagined the flocks of puffin we'd see on this clear cloudless evening.
As the first hour wore on and we slowed to a troll no less than 200 ft from Protection Island, we all hung to the edge of the rail, scanning the island cliffs and beaches for puffins. Using binoculars, we saw several eagles (the eagle counter counted 26 by the end of the trip, but she couldn't guarantee some weren't repeats. They do, after all, move around!), gulls, oyster catchers, rhinoceros auklets, a mama seal and her two pups. All the while, our guide, Roger, never missed a beat speaking in a monotone hesitant manner reminiscent of Batman. Admittedly, he provided a plethora of notable seabird information.
As the temperatures dropped, we began huddling together under blankets to keep warm. In my hurry to get on with the trip out to sea, I'd left my scarf and gloves inconveniently back in our hotel room. They would have been handy at this point.
Alas, we spotted a puffin bobbing out in the water several feet from our boat. Not just 'a' puffin, but a flock of three! While all the eager bird watchers crammed to one side of the boat looking through their view finders and binoculars to capture the moment of finally seeing these exotic creatures, I was practically peeing my pants at the thought of all of us paying $55 each to ride out to this remote island for three little puffins. These delightful tufted puffins appeared to bounce and bobble in the water. Their bright red beaks and white and yellow head tufts making them stand out against the darkening sea seemed so out of place in our neck of the woods. They really were striking.
Our captain finally picked up speed and continued his path around Protection Island to seek out more puffins. After a short distance, we spotted another one. We learned that puffins are solo birds and a flock (or 'gathering') is considered 1.4 birds. I guess seeing three at once made our trip quite successful. Roger also informed us that Protection Island was home to 13 pairs of puffin. Twenty-six puffin warranted naming an entire cruise after them. Wildlife Cruise, Seabirds of the Northwest, Bird Watcher's Cruise all seemed more appropriate and accurate.
In the end, our total puffin tally was four. Apparently, that is a good day out according to the online brochure I read a little closer upon arriving home. "Although we can't guarantee
a sighting on every outing, the chance of seeing a puffin on our evening Puffin Cruises is very good." Reading that back, nothing about that line indicates that we were about to embark on an island full of puffins. A testimony from one bird watcher excitedly reported seeing 4 or 5 puffin in one trip. We all agree reading the fine print might have been helpful in our decision making. However, we may have opted out and would have missed a fabulous weekend in Port Townsend with beautiful weather, delicious food, spectacular scenery, a lovely boat ride and, most importantly, time spent with wonderful friends.
And to the often asked question, "there are puffins in Washington?" Our answer-- "not exactly."
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Southern Exposure
Yea! Summer has finally arrived. Well, at least it was here yesterday. Today is questionably grey again. My segue from spring into summer involves some organizing and tidying up of my apartment. The smaller the space, the greater the need for those special storage containers, baskets, shelves and other devices that assist in stowing away the clutter in a creative fashion.
Summer brings long warm days, sunshine (those of us in the PNW can only hope), sandals and maybe even bathing suits. I currently have six months’ worth of sandals in a city with only two months of summer. I have sworn off any more sandal or flip flop purchases until I am able to wear the ones I already own.
Along with my summer apartment tidying ritual, I took a trip to the local waxing salon for some necessary tidying “down there”. More than one friend commented on my bravery. Bravery is not required but humility is. Some women wax for their lovers. I personally wax for myself. I cannot stand mess and disarray in my home or, eh hem…in my private parts.
Previously, I’d visited my local nail salon for bikini waxing services. For a pretty reasonable price, Thuy got down to business. Not a lot of small talk took place as English is Thuy’s second language and is limited. Beyond the polite introductions, she did not have anything more to say. I lay quietly still concentrating on the ceiling tiles. While Thuy worked away ripping the hair from my bikini line with great speed and efficiency, her head bent down just inches from my Hoo-Ha, I tried not to feel self-conscious. But let’s face it, it’s a tad uncomfortable having another chick’s face down in your business whether it’s your Ob Gyn or your wax girl.
Recently, a friend purchased some Group On coupons for waxing services. She meant to buy two, but her finger slipped on the keys and she accidentally ordered 20! Realizing there was an expiration date on the coupons, and her hair growth was not that excessive, she passed the savings on to her furry friends.
My first visit to the salon was aborted because my hair was too short to wax. I walked out more than disappointed that I’d have to continue living with the mess down there for another week and a half. I also felt kind of bad for my boyfriend. He’s too sweet to complain, but honestly, that can’t be a turn on!
I returned for my second visit with more than sufficient growth and ready for the grooming. Melissa, my “waxitician”, asked if I wanted a triangle or just a strip. I dunno, no one has ever asked me what shape I wanted. I suppose I could have requested a heart shape or scull and crossbones. “Just a landing strip,” I said.
She begins working away while we discuss our neighborhoods, walking to work, summer plans. Engaging in mundane chit chat is preferable while being slathered in hot wax, and having every hair follicle aggressively ripped out leaving your skin burning in agony.
Melissa then asks me if I want the “extended bikini”. Errr, I look at her quizzically. I don’t even know what that means. “It gets the hair between the butt cheeks. It comes with the regular bikini wax- no additional charge. Once you have it done, you will love it!” she said. Well, if there is no additional charge, why not? I go for it.
I’m already on my back with my legs in a V-shape. She asks me to pull my right knee up to my ear while she doe that butt cheek, then my left knee for the left side. THEN she directs me to pull both knees up hugging them to my ear. I’m reminded of the Happy Baby Pose in yoga and refrain from giggling.
“You know, Melissa,” I said,” just a few more classes and you could be a gynecologist and make a lot more money.”
Once the angry redness calmed down, I was quite pleased with the outcome. And I have credit left over on my coupon, so I get to do it all over again in a month! Oh the joy. As much as I do this for myself, I do hope my boyfriend appreciates the effort.
Summer brings long warm days, sunshine (those of us in the PNW can only hope), sandals and maybe even bathing suits. I currently have six months’ worth of sandals in a city with only two months of summer. I have sworn off any more sandal or flip flop purchases until I am able to wear the ones I already own.
Along with my summer apartment tidying ritual, I took a trip to the local waxing salon for some necessary tidying “down there”. More than one friend commented on my bravery. Bravery is not required but humility is. Some women wax for their lovers. I personally wax for myself. I cannot stand mess and disarray in my home or, eh hem…in my private parts.
Previously, I’d visited my local nail salon for bikini waxing services. For a pretty reasonable price, Thuy got down to business. Not a lot of small talk took place as English is Thuy’s second language and is limited. Beyond the polite introductions, she did not have anything more to say. I lay quietly still concentrating on the ceiling tiles. While Thuy worked away ripping the hair from my bikini line with great speed and efficiency, her head bent down just inches from my Hoo-Ha, I tried not to feel self-conscious. But let’s face it, it’s a tad uncomfortable having another chick’s face down in your business whether it’s your Ob Gyn or your wax girl.
Recently, a friend purchased some Group On coupons for waxing services. She meant to buy two, but her finger slipped on the keys and she accidentally ordered 20! Realizing there was an expiration date on the coupons, and her hair growth was not that excessive, she passed the savings on to her furry friends.
My first visit to the salon was aborted because my hair was too short to wax. I walked out more than disappointed that I’d have to continue living with the mess down there for another week and a half. I also felt kind of bad for my boyfriend. He’s too sweet to complain, but honestly, that can’t be a turn on!
I returned for my second visit with more than sufficient growth and ready for the grooming. Melissa, my “waxitician”, asked if I wanted a triangle or just a strip. I dunno, no one has ever asked me what shape I wanted. I suppose I could have requested a heart shape or scull and crossbones. “Just a landing strip,” I said.
She begins working away while we discuss our neighborhoods, walking to work, summer plans. Engaging in mundane chit chat is preferable while being slathered in hot wax, and having every hair follicle aggressively ripped out leaving your skin burning in agony.
Melissa then asks me if I want the “extended bikini”. Errr, I look at her quizzically. I don’t even know what that means. “It gets the hair between the butt cheeks. It comes with the regular bikini wax- no additional charge. Once you have it done, you will love it!” she said. Well, if there is no additional charge, why not? I go for it.
I’m already on my back with my legs in a V-shape. She asks me to pull my right knee up to my ear while she doe that butt cheek, then my left knee for the left side. THEN she directs me to pull both knees up hugging them to my ear. I’m reminded of the Happy Baby Pose in yoga and refrain from giggling.
“You know, Melissa,” I said,” just a few more classes and you could be a gynecologist and make a lot more money.”
Once the angry redness calmed down, I was quite pleased with the outcome. And I have credit left over on my coupon, so I get to do it all over again in a month! Oh the joy. As much as I do this for myself, I do hope my boyfriend appreciates the effort.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Clearing the Clutter
It's about this time of year clearing the clutter becomes a major focus for many of us. Spring cleaning ensues as the days become longer and the setting sun through our window brings attention to the blinds that haven't been dusted properly for several months. It's the time for detoxing the body of impurities, as well as the time for detoxing our closets, drawers and garages of the unwanted stuff we've been collecting all winter (or longer). Yard sales become more prevalent. Spring editions of my favorite magazines publish articles on clearing the clutter, reorganizing your space, donating gently used items to charitable organizations.
I'm no different. Something about that spring equinox gives me a spurt of energy and enthusiasm for purging. I've gone through closets, kitchen cupboards, desk drawers and the space under my bed until a pile of shopping bags were stacked in Dr. Seuss fashion against a wall in my living room awaiting the charity truck's arrival. There is no excuse not to get rid of unwanted or unused stuff when someone will come by and pick it up for you. My one bedroom apartment easily begins to bust at the seams if purging isn't done on a regular basis.
I sound so insensitive and unattached as I talk about chucking out the old and relieving some sorely needed closet space. Until...yes, until I'm forced to admit one thing. More than being ashamed, I'm actually rather baffled by this fact. I still have 24 years after the wedding and 9 years after the divorce, my wedding gown. Why do I still have this absurd thing in my possession? I have no idea. It's still in it's "preserved" wedding gown box- the kind where you can see the bodice through a window in the front of it.
One friend commented in horror when I confessed, "You live in a one bedroom apartment! Where are you storing this thing?" Yes, this is my own reaction. Believe me. There is just something keeping me from pushing this (rather large) box out onto the curb along with all my other discarded crap for a strange truck to come by and load up like a piece of garbage. I don't really know why. No one in my family is ever going to want to wear the thing. I got married in 1987. That says it all.
As I began confessing to other friends, also divorced, I learned I am not alone. One friend has the gown from her first wedding still hanging in her closet. That garment has been hanging there for the duration of two marriages and witnessed two divorces. But there is something that prevents her from hauling it away. My brother's ex-wife who I'm very close to still has hers a couple years after her divorce in hopes that one of her daughters might want it. It's funny that we somehow hold more value on the dress than the guys we wore it for. I haven't seen or spoken to my ex-husband for nine years, but I've got this dress staring at me every time I open my coat closet.
If that's not enough, my boyfriend has his ex-wife's gown in his closet! When she moved out, he asked her if she was going to take that with her. "Nope" was all she said.
The dress doesn't represent anything significant for me except a lot of money spent on something I'll never wear again. I did like it. It was special at the time, but I certainly don't keep it for sentimental reasons. I requested the divorce. There is no emotional clutter to clear out. I'm not carrying around some old baggage of deep seeded sorrow and pain. No way. So why can't I seem to part with the dress? I'd like to do something that makes me feel better somehow. Something that makes me feel like it was worth the cost and effort.
My ex-sister-in-law said she went to St. Vincent De Paul recently and saw a wedding gown hanging in the window. Her immediate thought was "Eee Gads, that thing is gaudy!" Then she wondered if that is the reaction her own nearly 20 year old dress would bring.
Another friend bought a used wedding gown off Craigslist last year at Halloween. She proceeded to cut it up, soil it, and apply fake blood for her corpse bride costume. I just can't accept that possible fate for my own lovely gown.
I began soliciting ideas for these old 80's-90's wedding gowns. Donating them is an option, but upon further research it seemed that most of the brides in need would prefer something a little more, ummm, modern. The particular era we're talking about here doesn't make them "vintage" quite yet either.
One friend suggested a tea party where we all wear our gowns. That would be a fantastic idea if I had half a chance of fitting into the thing. I was 118 lbs on my wedding day. Three pounds more than my goal weight at the time and several pounds less than my goal weight today. Yeah, that's not happening. But I'm guessing there would be a few others in the same predicament.
Another suggestion included donating it to the Children's Theater or any other theater group in town. My wedding dress in a play! That sounds better than it morphing into a corpse bride costume.
I thought a charity function of a sort could be fun. A Drag Queen Bridal Fashion Show with money raised going to some worthy cause. Finding small sized drag queens could pose a challenge, but I'm sure it's possible in this town.
At any rate, the Center for the Blind came by yesterday and picked up my eight or ten bags of goods. Not only my wedding gown, but also my mother's wedding gown (which is at least vintage-circa 1947) are still in the closet hogging up prime real estate. Suggestions are welcomed.
I'm no different. Something about that spring equinox gives me a spurt of energy and enthusiasm for purging. I've gone through closets, kitchen cupboards, desk drawers and the space under my bed until a pile of shopping bags were stacked in Dr. Seuss fashion against a wall in my living room awaiting the charity truck's arrival. There is no excuse not to get rid of unwanted or unused stuff when someone will come by and pick it up for you. My one bedroom apartment easily begins to bust at the seams if purging isn't done on a regular basis.
I sound so insensitive and unattached as I talk about chucking out the old and relieving some sorely needed closet space. Until...yes, until I'm forced to admit one thing. More than being ashamed, I'm actually rather baffled by this fact. I still have 24 years after the wedding and 9 years after the divorce, my wedding gown. Why do I still have this absurd thing in my possession? I have no idea. It's still in it's "preserved" wedding gown box- the kind where you can see the bodice through a window in the front of it.
One friend commented in horror when I confessed, "You live in a one bedroom apartment! Where are you storing this thing?" Yes, this is my own reaction. Believe me. There is just something keeping me from pushing this (rather large) box out onto the curb along with all my other discarded crap for a strange truck to come by and load up like a piece of garbage. I don't really know why. No one in my family is ever going to want to wear the thing. I got married in 1987. That says it all.
As I began confessing to other friends, also divorced, I learned I am not alone. One friend has the gown from her first wedding still hanging in her closet. That garment has been hanging there for the duration of two marriages and witnessed two divorces. But there is something that prevents her from hauling it away. My brother's ex-wife who I'm very close to still has hers a couple years after her divorce in hopes that one of her daughters might want it. It's funny that we somehow hold more value on the dress than the guys we wore it for. I haven't seen or spoken to my ex-husband for nine years, but I've got this dress staring at me every time I open my coat closet.
If that's not enough, my boyfriend has his ex-wife's gown in his closet! When she moved out, he asked her if she was going to take that with her. "Nope" was all she said.
The dress doesn't represent anything significant for me except a lot of money spent on something I'll never wear again. I did like it. It was special at the time, but I certainly don't keep it for sentimental reasons. I requested the divorce. There is no emotional clutter to clear out. I'm not carrying around some old baggage of deep seeded sorrow and pain. No way. So why can't I seem to part with the dress? I'd like to do something that makes me feel better somehow. Something that makes me feel like it was worth the cost and effort.
My ex-sister-in-law said she went to St. Vincent De Paul recently and saw a wedding gown hanging in the window. Her immediate thought was "Eee Gads, that thing is gaudy!" Then she wondered if that is the reaction her own nearly 20 year old dress would bring.
Another friend bought a used wedding gown off Craigslist last year at Halloween. She proceeded to cut it up, soil it, and apply fake blood for her corpse bride costume. I just can't accept that possible fate for my own lovely gown.
I began soliciting ideas for these old 80's-90's wedding gowns. Donating them is an option, but upon further research it seemed that most of the brides in need would prefer something a little more, ummm, modern. The particular era we're talking about here doesn't make them "vintage" quite yet either.
One friend suggested a tea party where we all wear our gowns. That would be a fantastic idea if I had half a chance of fitting into the thing. I was 118 lbs on my wedding day. Three pounds more than my goal weight at the time and several pounds less than my goal weight today. Yeah, that's not happening. But I'm guessing there would be a few others in the same predicament.
Another suggestion included donating it to the Children's Theater or any other theater group in town. My wedding dress in a play! That sounds better than it morphing into a corpse bride costume.
I thought a charity function of a sort could be fun. A Drag Queen Bridal Fashion Show with money raised going to some worthy cause. Finding small sized drag queens could pose a challenge, but I'm sure it's possible in this town.
At any rate, the Center for the Blind came by yesterday and picked up my eight or ten bags of goods. Not only my wedding gown, but also my mother's wedding gown (which is at least vintage-circa 1947) are still in the closet hogging up prime real estate. Suggestions are welcomed.
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